


Sie Ist Gerettet

by EreshkigalIrkalla



Category: Kuroshitsuji | Black Butler
Genre: Gen, Other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-16
Updated: 2014-09-16
Packaged: 2018-02-17 14:57:03
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,088
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2313623
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EreshkigalIrkalla/pseuds/EreshkigalIrkalla
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Mephistopheles is what humans might call an “odd duck”. Jovial, cynical, and always subtly theatrical, he has wormed his way into modern human literature more thoroughly than even the Devil himself.</p><p>Of course Sebastian would be far more impressed by all of this if Old Mephisto also had the courtesy to let one know when he planned on visiting instead of simply showing up on one’s doorstep."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sie Ist Gerettet

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to keyboardclicks for editing for me!

He can call Mephistopheles “uncle” only in loosest of senses. Indeed, neither of his parents have any siblings; neither do they have parents of their own for that matter. Demonic genealogy is rather fuzzy to begin with, especially given that those who had not fallen were all descendents of the same female, but not necessarily of the same male, and the fact that they weren’t hindered by the normal faculties of aging, meaning that your sister could actually be several thousand years younger than you, but when you threw in the fact many of the oldest individuals had simply sprung into being one day, it became downright confusing.

Mephistopheles, like both of his parents is of the latter group, a member of the Fallen, and a rather high-ranking devil. Although not genetically related to Sebastian’s father, he is of the same elite class, so the term “uncle” is fitting if only for that reason.

Uncle Mephistopheles is what humans might call an “odd duck”. Jovial, cynical, and always subtly theatrical, he has wormed his way into modern human literature more thoroughly than even the Devil himself.

Of course Sebastian would be far more impressed by all of this if Old Mephisto also had the courtesy to let one know when he planned on visiting instead of simply showing up on one’s doorstep.

And so it is that on that particular day Sebastian opens the doors to one of the most celebrated demons in history.

There on the doorsteps of the Phantomhive manor, showing none of the usual deference of one about to enter a house so grand and looking for all the world as if he had forgotten what century is was, was Mephistopheles.

His appearance is different than that of Sebastian’s. Equally refined, but slightly older-looking, he practically radiates the image of the fine distinguished aristocrat. With his haughty airs, fancy clothing and neatly trimmed goatee he is every bit the image of the gentlemen devil.

“And a good afternoon to you, my boy!” He exclaims, arms thrown up in mock jubilation as he pushes his way past Sebastian and into the manor.

“Uncle,” He replies, not quite able to keep the surprise out of his voice. He gives himself a mental shake, and then gives his guest a bow. “Welcome to the Phantomhive manor, how may I be of assistance?”

“Oh, come off it!” Mephistopheles whips round suddenly, and Sebastian ducks just in time to avoid being hit in the face by a trio of long, fluffy, red feathers. Honestly, why does he insist on wearing that ridiculous hat?

“You can’t be serious. Come now, it’s only the two of us.”

“I shan’t even think of it. The butler’s aesthetic is quite clear.”

Mephistopheles gives him a long, weary look. “You always did take things very seriously,” A short shake of the head. “But I suppose that is what has made you so effective. Tell me! How are things on your end? And don’t give me that look. I made the trip up here; the least you could do is offer me a bit of your time. What do you say? How about some catching up with your old mentor?”

Sebastian does some quick mental mathematics. He does not want to have to explain Mephisto’s presence to anyone in the house, but he cannot turn him away for fear of rudeness. Occasionally Mephisto, having been the first of their kind to begin making contracts and therefore the one to pass on this valuable knowledge to the younger generations, likes to check up on his former charges.

The young master is having a music lesson right now, so he has approximately two hours to get his uncle in and out of the house. Judging from the sounds coming from upstairs this tutor is proving to be just as ineffective as the others. Sebastian is the only one able to get anything resembling a clear note out of the boy, and that is because he is the only one who has no qualms against giving him a good smack upside the back of the head when he gets too stubborn.

Truth be told, he very much does not want to have to spend two hours a day listening to his master turn Bach into something that sounds like a family of choleric cats being run over by a carriage (Oh! He hadn’t wanted to think about that), hence the reason he had tried hiring tutors for the boy, but if they were unable to produce a satisfactory result… Well, that was two hours fewer for him to finish the chores around the mansion.

In a matter of seconds he has the table set up for tea, Mephisto seated comfortably in the fanciest chair, as he stands, awaiting orders.

It is all a formality of course, neither of them are going to be eating anything, but as his guest had said, he has always taken these things very seriously.

After several failed attempts at getting him to sit down, Mephistopheles simply sighs and seems to write the whole thing off as futile.

“Tell me boy, how have you been? What is it that they call you nowadays, ‘Sebastian’?

Word travels fast.

“Sebastian Michaelis, to be exact.”

His uncle snorts. “A demonologist, an angel and a saint. Nicely done!”

And a dog.

“Well then Sebastian, tell me what it is you’ve been up to. Leave nothing out, I’ve got all of the time in the world.”

And so Sebastian talks, and he talks, and he tries to keep the conversation as curt as possible because goodness, he’s running out of time already, but his uncle is adamant and insists on pulling as many details out of him as he can.

“And your master is a child, eh? How unusual. You haven’t had much experience with the little buggers before, have you?

Sebastian gives a small smile, “That is true. They are not really my area of expertise.”

“Not mine, either. Only had to deal with children because my “masters” had them. Never really had to take care of them myself. You ought to ask your mother, she’s had plenty of experience with children.”

If you counted stealing away the souls of infants into realms of infinite darkness right under the noses of their parents, then yes, mother has had _ample_ experience in dealing with children.

There are a few sour notes from upstairs, and then an ear-splitting screech that echoes through the mansion. Sebastian sighs, it would be enough to make his father weep. Now _there’s_ an idea, call up his father to teach the young Phantomhive how to play. True, the child would likely be covered in third-degree burns by the end of it, but at least he would no longer be forced to think about dying cats.

His thoughts are interrupted as Mephistopheles coughs and gives him a pointed look.

And so he is off again, detailing house-cleanings and kidnappings, chefs who cannot cook and maids who cannot clean, and it is only when he gets to the blood-soaked tale of Jack the Ripper than his uncle interrupts again.

“Reapers!” He exclaims, and Sebastian is a little proud to have surprised him, “Among humans?”

“Indeed. _Working_ with humans, I might add. It was the first time I had seen them in this world.”

“Of all the things,” Mephisto smiles as he shakes his head. “I’ve only seen them round these parts a few times. Picky little things, they are. Very sensitive about the spectacles. Well, this _is_ rare. Go on then, describe them for me. Better yet, draw me a picture, I’d love to see it.”

Sebastian fetches a pen and a blank envelope. It takes him only moments to sketch out a picture worthy of a photograph, and looking up at him is the face of Grell Sutcliff. He flips it over, intent upon drawing Sutcliff the way he likes to see him, namely, beaten to bits with his face in the dirt, when Mephisto snatches it away from him.

He holds it close to him, face still, “Well, bless my soul,” he thinks he’s funny, “the resemblance is remarkable.”

“What do you mean?”

“If I didn’t know better myself, I would say he were a descendant. That one, the foppish thing,” He taps Grell Sutcliff’s face with one long, black nail. “he is the spitting image of Marguerite.”

“Foppish” he thinks, is not exactly the word he would use to describe Grell Sutcliff, he can think of _much_ better ones, words that are quite a lot more… Colourful, to put it kindly.

“You said there was another one, draw him for me.”

Sebastian obliges, takes back the envelope, and sketches out William T. Spears’ unsmiling face

Mephisto snatches it back and all but freezes. “I never would have believed it. But this one, he resembles, he looks so much like…”

“Doctor Faustus?” Sebastian supplies.

“My greatest failure.” Mephistopheles shakes his head. “And yet my greatest claim to fame.

“They couldn’t possibly be descendents. Are you saying that they’re some sort of reincarnation?”

“Perhaps. Or some memory given form. Or perhaps it is merely some coincidence, some sort of cosmic joke courtesy of up above,” He shakes his head again. “I couldn’t tell you. I did always wonder where they got those things from, the Reapers, that is. Seems almost cruel, doesn’t it?”

He allows the envelope to flutter from his hand onto the table. “Sie ist gerettet.”

Sebastian says nothing.

“That’s where the trouble began. ‘Sie ist garettet.” Mephistopheles takes one last look at the envelope on the table. “Perhaps I have been among humans for too long. I need a break. A century or so down below. Time to properly get my bearings, settle down.” He smirks “Get a new hat. Goodness knows I’ve had this thing since I first stepped into the good doctor’s study.”

He pulls the hat in question from his head, holds the garish thing in his hands, turning it over as if the answer to his question could only be found on the side of it that he couldn’t see and he was hoping to catch it before it scurried away again. “All these years,” he muses “and yet that particular contract still haunts me. Is it because I failed?” Sebastian says nothing and allows him to answer his own question. “No, no.” He stops turning the hat over and looks up, staring into the distance.

“Mankind is a funny thing, my boy. Desperate, heartless. Absolutely pathetic,” He looks back at the hat again, clutched in one hand, which is becoming less and less hand-like as he continues speaking. “And yet…” It is unmistakably a claw now, and the red hat looks so out of place sitting there. Mephistopheles seems to realize it too, and he stares, brow furrowed in thought. His grip loosens, and he holds the feathered cap out in front of him, contemplative. It almost looks as if he might drop it.

“And yet unrelenting.” He gives a sigh, stands up, and with a theatrical swish places the plumed hat back on his head.

He turns to Sebastian and nods, his hands nothing but hands once more.

“It seems as your little master has finished massacring classical music as we know it. I shall take my leave. Good day my boy, and good luck!” He waves as he goes, his tall form disappearing into the shadows as he walks, until there is nothing left.

Sebastian checks his watch. He has roughly ten minutes before the young master comes back downstairs to complain about his lesson. It had been a mistake, letting the instructors talk the boy into trying to play the cello, it sounded simply _awful_. Of course, that was mostly because it was bigger than he was, but there was no way in hell that the boy would ever admit that. It would be like admitting his height, and he was already so fussy about that particular… _Shortcoming_.

As butler his duty is to keep the manor clean, so he sets about to dusting. The envelope is thrown dutifully in the fire as he makes his way about the hallways. To be honest, his thoughts are elsewhere.

He thinks about what, if anything, he will do with his uncle’s revelation, how the young master could possibly destroy the works of Bach so thoroughly, and if in four hundred years there is even the slightest possibility that he will still be wandering about wearing a black tailcoat.

**Author's Note:**

> I made quite a few assumptions about Sebastian's family tree here (First and foremost being that he has any family at all), but I think that they fit. Bonus points to you if you can figure out who he was referring to as "mother" and "father".
> 
> I've always wondered where the Reapers might have come from. Really the only connection between Will and Faust is Will's hatred of demons and the fact that Faust was blinded in the second act, hence the poor eyes and the reliance upon his scythe for everything.
> 
> Grell and Gretchen have only the German name and the fact that Gretchen drowned her child, which would explain the whole "I want children" thing.
> 
> Oh well, it was fun anyway.


End file.
